Minutes of Timeless Past
by redexted
Summary: Death is but a stopped watch, a momentary loss, an everlasting darkness. As his Time ends he returns to Nothing, yet lives on in eternal memory. NoonArthur implied.


Note: this story supposedly takes place on Sunday, so some (perhaps oversimplified) creations are present.

Disclaimer: All related characters and elements are (c) Garth Nix.

Monday's Noon / Arthur implied.

**Minutes of Timeless Past**

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* * *

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He descended upon the veil of sheer moonlight, the barrier that separated the Observatory from the facsimile sky as a hood of velvet swept across the zenith and hid the waning sunset from view. Where his shoes touched the Immaterial there was a deep humming sound, and ripples flew out radially like pebbles on water: impenetrable yet translucent, ruthlessly revealing all that lay beneath.

_Too late, too late._

Another thrust, and Lord Sunday's hand embedded itself into the boy's chest, where the Seventh Key liberated golden shafts of sorcerous light. At once the poor child screamed, agonised, the life flowing out of him in rivers of red, his choice of weapon slipping and hitting the gold-veined marble with a resonating —

"_No!_"

In an unintelligible display of agitation he flexed his fingers, and a flaming sword appeared in his hand. Swinging the hilt in one swift semicircle he sent the blade right into the barrier. Deep red forks of fire lashed about his feet, and then no more, for the sword — the sword he never quite got used to wielding — was, needless to say, no match against the intricate sorcery of the final Trustee.

But it proved enough on his part — for a split second the boy's gaze flickered to him, then to the inert ruby-eyed harbinger at a corner, then to his long incapacitated and unconscious companion in battle that was Suzy Blue — mere metres away from the exchange — then back to him again. Through his involuntary tears the child smiled feebly at him, as if in acknowledgement of his chief aide's presence, and undying loyalty.

The Sixth Key shot back into his grip once more, and was plunged deep through half of Sunday's throat — his last futile attempt at abolishing the being that was neither human nor Denizen nor Nithling, whose weaknesses remained unknown till the very end.

But the streams of champagne blood went unnoticed, even as Arthur twisted and yanked out the Key with that dwindling bit of energy left in him. A sickening sound echoed through the stale air, followed by another sharp cry as his heart was brutally ruptured. Lord Sunday removed his hand from the gaping wound once again, a conceited smile gracing his face as the ring of gold and onyx glowed around his blood-drenched fingers.

And silent words escaped those smiling lips, words that he, beyond the veil, could not hear, beyond the inner voices that screamed themselves hoarse from the moment the defeat of the mortal boy was determined. The Trustee, intangible and invulnerable, merely dusted his coat in a dismissive manner, and pressed the black stone of his Key against a portion of the wall, where a doorway appeared, then vanished in his wake.

Above the Observatory he half-heartedly pierced the fiery blade through the diminishing barrier once more, and this time it gave way without the presence of the Key, shrivelling away like singeing parchment. As the sword fell from his hand it vanished, silently reprising the inevasible fall of the Rightful Heir.

– – –

_Neither way of word nor manner of action was enough for him to express his utmost relief and gratitude. Nevertheless, he stood proudly before his siblings, as further decisions were being made by both Arthur and Part One of the Will. _

_He knew the Rightful Heir would come one day. He knew his Master would in due course be freed of his preposterous indolence. He knew the mortal boy, Arthur Penhaligon, would go against the odds and emerge triumphant. And he knew all that fell apart under the reign of the divided would, eventually, be put right once more._

_He knew, and he believed._

"_I will be your Steward," the reincarnation of the Will announced. "But who shall be your — our — Dawn, Noon, and Dusk?"_

_Arthur turned to face him, the first time ever since the boy's new title as the magister of the Lower House, and soon beyond. "Dusk," he acknowledged. "Do you want to keep your job?"_

_Somehow a fresh warmth stirred him from within, and even more so as he remembered __Arthur's reference to him, before either of his siblings'. He smiled at this detail, and bowed deeply to the boy. "No, my lord," he said truthfully. "I would step out of the shadows and stand in the sun to serve you and your Steward, my lord, as either Dawn or Noon."_

_Yet in his heart there was something else he wanted: to have himself right beside Arthur, the one person he trusted from the beginning, the one person he wished to be trusted by till the end; throughout all his prospective endeavours, his sojourns in the House — for all the Time that was to come._

_And out of what he himself assumed was obligatory fairness, he added, "Many of my Midnight Visitors would also like a change of employment, if you see fit to allow them. They grow weary of wearing black."_

"_You shall be Noon, then," the boy decided, smiling briefly at him, at which he bowed again in thankfulness. That consequently his brother would be demoted to his previous rank did not matter much to him right then. A step further into the light he would soon get used to, though, instead allowed him more room for open observation, more so of the one individual in the middle of all that attention._

_Arthur was, he noted, all that he imagined in a Rightful Heir, albeit a little on the young side. Still he shone — in his own brilliance, his comeliness, his altruism, his certainty. They were the promises that he held, and the futures that he represented. There was no possibility he would even mind coming under such an authority. Or the fact that, after the colloquies thereafter, he now had a new, probably most entertaining, assistant in the form of Suzy Turquoise Blue, going by the station of Monday's Tierce and standing by his side._

_And so, too, was Time._

– – –

A draft rose from the tips of his wings, slowly stirring Suzy into consciousness as he landed, in a kneeling position where Arthur's broken body lay. She blinked, confused, trying with tremendous effort to lift her sorcery-impinged self off the floor, and see beyond the figure that blocked from her view who she presumed to be Arthur.

"Is that you, Noon?" Suzy called, weakly. "When did you get here? And where . . . where's that bastard Sunday anyways?" She attempted a snort of disdain. "Scarpered off soon as Artie snatched the Key from 'im, didn't he?"

Her questions were greeted with nary a proper explanation by Noon, nor a retort from her long-time acquaintance, as he so often shot back during their mindless little squabbles at teatime. Quite expectantly she waited for Arthur to peer behind the tall silhouette that was Noon, snap irritably at her, "_Don't call me Artie,"_ and then voice out any of his plans on what to do next, like he always did.

But he did not.

"Arthur . . . he's there, ain't he, Noon?" For perhaps the first time since her maiden voyage aboard the Improbable Stair, she was harbouring doubts about their present quest: about whether Arthur was still able to relinquish the Key from its respective Trustee, about whether he still remembered his promise about not leaving her, and the other Piper's children, behind — about whether he still could, after all.

There was a long and heavy silence. Presently she heard Noon's voice, soft and stilted, as usual. "Arthur is fine, Miss Blue. He merely needs to rest right now, and —"

"No." The raven that had stood in the shadows throughout the battle flapped its wings and landed near Suzy, its plumage flowing swiftly with minute type. "I do not sense his existence any longer," it declared, though unwillingly, in a raspy voice. "Not since the one blow that wrenched the life out of him, however . . . however I desire that to be untrue."

"What blow?" Suzy interjected. "Totally knocked out I was, I don't even know wha' happened after that." Then her dark eyes widened as the reality sank in. "You mean . . . you mean Arthur . . ."

"All hope is lost," murmured the raven, very quietly. "At least, until Lord — until a next suitable candidate is chosen. Until the Will may finally be done."

It cocked its head towards the expanding pool of claret, its eyes of a similar shade glinting in the false starlight. "The Rightful Heir is no more," the Seventh Part of the Will proclaimed sagely. And with an almighty beat of its wings it lifted itself out of the Observatory and away, into the high ceiling of the night.

– – –

"'_Time runs true in the House, yet meanders elsewhere.' That's what it said."_

"_. . . Yes, my lord."_

"_But it's annoying, the way it does that. Every time, soon as I go home, I get called back here for some emergency because of another Morrow Day's stupid attack of some sorts." Arthur unclenched his fingers clutching at his own hair, and gave a careless sigh. "It flies by before I can even get a decent bit of rest. And sleep."_

_He watched as the boy stared glumly towards the floor whilst sitting beside him, once again burying his hands in his hair. Somehow there was no need to say anything more, for he knew what Arthur was trying to imply. Unfortunate though was the fact that he could do little to relieve the Heir of his discontent and fatigue. Except by understanding._

"_I know."_

_In Arthur's hand appeared Scamandros's ring, which had been in his shirt pocket before. It was one minute worth of heavy silence and intent examination later did he finally say, in a whisper, "And I don't want to turn into a Denizen, either."_

_The reply came after another precious minute was past. Yet it was not that either minded this, very much. "At least your Time as one would be more . . . perpetual."_

"_But why would I want it that way?" the boy asked, more to himself than otherwise. "I'm human, Noon. A mortal. It's only natural — it's only right I should continue __to be one for as long as I live. And besides —" He threw a sideways glance at his Secretary — "I don't want to give up __all the things that . . . that just make me human. I don't want to give them up just to be some fanciful immortal in the House." A fleeting smile caught at the corner of his lips, and then was gone. "Cosmetic illnesses, indeed. . ."_

_He turned his head away. Evidently the idea of eternal Time did not appeal to Arthur, like he had imagined. Perhaps he was asking for too much. Perhaps it was a selfish notion on his part, a slip from the character he was supposed to be._

_He wondered which side of him Arthur actually preferred._

"_It would certainly help in your future challenges with the other Trustees, though," he eventually mused._

"_Not if I had died right there during the cross-country run." The ring went on an idle spin as Arthur twiddled it with his thumbs, and the boy subsequently broke into a crazed grin. "Morbid. All these things are making me mad. All these ifs. If I'd died right there Monday wouldn't have come and found me. If I'd died right there I wouldn't have gotten myself embroiled in all this mess at all."_

_Millennia he had spent in the House lurking in the shadows, putting on a firm face, trying to resolve matters to the way they were. Yet all that was now broken by the inclusion of the young Heir, whom he so trusted, respected, and loved._

_And that, he admitted, was the side he wanted Arthur to see._

"_If you had died right there I would not have encountered you at all."_

_It was a delicate statement that made Arthur turn and look straight at him, while the ring halted in its twirling. The gaze in his bright brown eyes was almost too intense to handle, but finally, yet another half minute later, Arthur broke into a small, affectionate smile._

"_I believe you said that first," the boy said, as his face coloured slightly. "And I . . . I appreciate it. I do."_

_He leaned forward, just a little closer, under the pretext of taking the ring gingerly from the Heir, who complied in an even more poorly hidden movement, until Arthur's head nestled quite snugly in the gentle curve of his shoulder. And it was then that one felt safe, the other complete, and both curiously yet wonderfully content — in some sort of temporary comfort, amidst the confusion running rampant in the other domains of the House._

_His fingers gently, and quite subconsciously, wove themselves into Arthur's hair; the boy relaxed visibly, with a quiet exhale and a hand curled against his waistcoat, small and warm. "I trust," he began softly, "that you now understand why mere minutes of your Time on Earth equates to so much more here, in the House?"_

"_Don't remind me," Arthur whispered. The gentle light glinted and shimmered in his eyes as they focused on the cravat under his aide's collar, then slowly closed — and all that he took in, without a word. "I have to rest. I have to tackle Lady Friday or whoever's next on the list. And I certainly don't have the Time to analyse such things, remember that."_

– – –

"He — he cannot be dead! He's the Rightful Heir, the Master of the whole darned House! He won't die that easily, at least not in this House. Surely . . . surely . . ."

_That was what we all thought too._

He heard the abrupt end to Suzy's blabbering, the low squeals of the tiles as she got onto her feet, trying to get over and witness the boy's condition for herself. But a sudden wave of languor overwhelmed her; her eyes rolled back, and then she was out cold once more, slumped awkwardly against the floor.

_That was what we all had to believe . . . and that is why I cannot allow you to see the truth._

His right hand, residual with magic, did not linger long in the air. It slipped under Arthur's head, trembling, and brought it closer to his own face. It was nostalgic, vaguely reminiscent of a memory from years ago, down the Deep Coal Cellar. A memory of a first faithful persuasion, coupled by the parallel beating of wings; a memory of a first whiff of hope, together with the reciprocal of spirit, and heart.

He held the Sixth Key against the bloody cavity on Arthur's chest, which glowed in a soft golden light as it slowly healed and alleviated. Still the blood came out in torrents, its deep red colour proving that that Arthur was still what he wanted to be all along: a mortal; that even in the House, with a dysfunctional heart a life could never go on, Denizen and human alike, with or without a Key —

— _that his Time has ended, and he will cease to be._

The Key shook violently as an unexpected cry escaped his throat, and he exerted more pressure to the object, though not too much that it would hurt — _that Arthur would feel the pain_. From deep down he willed it to work its magic; the wound began to diminish more rapidly. Yet at the same time, he knew the internal damage would not be reversed, and would never be.

He just did not wish to accept it as such.

The child that lay against him was still, silent, and deathly pale; his hair was damp from sweat, splayed all across his forehead; his eyes were shut, gently, tear streaks drying from their corners — and his hand, cold and lifeless, was still loosely curled around the Key. Yet at the same time he appeared to be deep in dreams and slumber, just like a child — the one he always had been.

– – –

_They were curious windows of shifting light, caught behind frosted glass, that occasionally reflected random scenes from the Realms. The boy still did not say a word, and merely ran a hand over the bronze curlicues, appearing to be deep in thought._

"_You did well, my lord."_

"_Do you really think so?" The eyes Arthur expected to look into his own did not, but remained declined towards the floor, in a mark of distant respect. "Do you really think I managed to convince them that I can still succeed this time round?"_

_He removed the top hat that almost grazed the low ceiling of the alcove, and finally raised his head. But the boy merely bit his lower lip in an unspoken disappointment, and turned away once more._

"_A battle prepared is a battle half won, Arthur," he said. "I believe the strategies you mentioned during the assembly illustrated plainly to the other Denizens your capability of bringing down Lord Sunday and resurrecting the House."_

"_They're not strategies at all." Arthur's voice was unnervingly quiet. "I was just . . . making things up. Giving myself more confidence. Gathering allies on my side. And all those things I said just now are all petty tactics that anyone can invent and boast about._

"_. . . And I don't even know if they'll work against Sunday when I don't know how . . . how powerful he is. Or what he's like." Arthur slipped his arms around himself, suddenly seeming extremely insignificant, and even more so as the seconds slipped by. "I . . . I don't think I'm going to . . ."_

_In an instant he found himself next to the Heir, with one knee down and two hands on the boy's shoulders, which he noticed were trembling. "You are going to make it, my lord," he insisted, in both patience and earnest. "And you will. Remember the times before when you managed to defeat all the other Morrow Days? Even the most powerful Denizen in the House, not too long ago?"_

_Gone was the willpower he saw in Arthur before, the fortitude that allowed him to endure and eliminate all the crises he came across time and again — for this time the boy was nothing but a marionette, controlled utterly by the dexterous strings of fear._

"_Superior Saturday was a mistake," Arthur admitted lowly. "She was distracted when I fought her. And her sin afflicted her so bad, getting the Key from her was almost too . . . too easy." He unfolded his arms and, in search for a little solace, placed a hand softly, on the frock coat his aide was in._

"_You are belittling yourself, my lord." He failed to look straight into the child's eyes, even as the words left his mouth. "And that is what the adversary is looking for. Arthur, you have to believe in yourself. You are not weak. And you certainly have the calibre to win this battle." With immense effort he brought himself to look up, but the damage had already been done._

"_. . . You're doubting me too."_

_The Heir let his quivering hand fall back to his side, silenced. "You're saying all that because you have to, aren't you?" he asked softly. "Because you're my Noon, and you have to help me . . . to stand on my side?" He shook his head, and sought to remove the hands that clutched his shoulders._

_But he held fast, and instead brought Arthur closer into his embrace, holding the boy's head between his gloved hands, pressing his forehead gently against his own. The lack of conversation between the two lengthened, for he hesitated to tell the truth, concealing this delay by repeatedly caressing the fineness of Arthur's hair, while the boy breathed deeply, on the verge of reluctant tears._

"_I am not doubting you," he whispered. "I just . . . I am greatly worried about you, my lord. I am fearful for your safety, and your life. That is all. We may have taken a series of precautions. We may have a hint of what Lord Sunday is up to. But we cannot persist in blind belief for immediate and certain success, especially now. That would be too gullible, too naïve. Because anything can still happen. Anything._

"_And I know it is not too . . . appropriate a time for me to say this, but —" He brushed away the first glistening trace of wetness that had gathered at the corner of the child's closed eyes — "I am very, very glad to have served you, Arthur, as your faithful Noon, and former Dusk. And I will wish to do so, until . . . until the end of Creation."_

_He did not know if Arthur believed all of his heartfelt words, or whether they were enough to quell his resistance, however little. But the boy raised his arms, and held the gloved hands tightly under his own, in some form of implied gratitude._

"_Can I ask of you a favour, Noon?" Arthur asked, quietly, as he opened his eyes. There was a distant pandemonium just then, echoing down the corridors and passing a tremor under their feet. Arthur's hands tightened around his Secretary's, and the boy inhaled sharply._

"_I'm not going to change into a Denizen, am I? So . . . so it's still likely I'll die some day. And when . . . if I do, in this House or somewhere else in the Secondary Realms, in the fight against Sunday or after that, after I come back in six years — can you take me back? Can you take . . . find my body and bring it back, back to my home, to my family on Earth?"_

_He listened to Arthur's request, though with a heavy heart. It was like a will, only from a vulnerable being — a wistful child — with too limited a Time in existence, preparing for the moment when it all would come to a close._

"_I will, my lord," he promised._

_But it was the appellation that spirited them apart once more. Broken, Arthur tore the gloved hands away from his temples and stepped back, a fresh cascade of tears falling down his face. He shook his head slowly, almost in lament, and retreated from the alcove, towards the impeding turbulence that threatened to rock the foundations of the Middle House, and far beyond._

– – –

He cradled Arthur's lifeless form in his arms, breathing hard, tasting the horrible scent of iron that lingered in the air. He forced himself to believe that the boy was only fast asleep, after yet another exhausting day of adventure in the House, in yet another disillusion, another false hope.

Naïve. That was what he had said. That was what he had been. That was what he was. That was what resulted in the sacrifice, the price that had to be paid. The price of ceased Time.

_There is still a long way for me to go. There is infinite Time for me to be._

With that Time the remaining warmth that resided in Arthur's body slipped away, slowly but surely, edging the boy closer to the Void. Yet paradoxically his own Time, he ruefully realised, was but eternal. A constant.

_Let me spend just a fragment of it with him, this last time. Just a few moments more._

A bloodstained glove came off his hand, which then gently stroked Arthur's closed eyes — eyes that would never see, or cry, ever again. Yet he, who was very much alive, did not see the last unspoken wish, could not cry out the tears of remorse that came along with it.

_. . . Then I will take you home._

And he bent down, a little closer like before, letting out a faint gasping sound — the wretched mimicry of a keening wail, that died away long before it could escape the Observatory or reach the ears of the people hurrying over, hours too late.

_-fin-_

* * *

I have no idea whether Noon and Dusk switched wings, tongue colour and weaponry with their changes in posts. Here I assume they did, even though this — among other things — may have been mentioned in _Sir Thursday_, which I haven't gotten my hands on yet. (Damn.)

I hope this story didn't turn out too confusing or dramatic . . . and I would be grateful for a few opinions too!


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